Gershwin
by TripUpStairs
Summary: Prompt: Faberry, puppy, toilet paper, trashed apartment, nap time, juices, inappropriate flirting, 1000 words. Fluff.


**A/N:** Prompted by thoughtsinorange to help me get the creative processes moving.

Prompt: Faberry, puppy, toilet paper, trashed apartment, nap time, juices, inappropriate flirting, 1000 words.

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**Gershwin**

"What do you mean you didn't put Gershwin in his crate?"

"Quinn," Rachel says, her voice pitching upwards like it does every time she thinks Quinn might be upset with her. "You should have seen him! He was curled up in a little black and brown puff of fur—he was too cute! I couldn't move him!"

"We agreed we were going to crate him while he was puppy! That's what all those books you had me read say to do." Quinn says. Rachel picked out ten books (ten!) for them to read on becoming owners of a puppy. And damn it all if Quinn didn't read every single one of them with her new wife.

"I don't see what harm there is in it. I'm only having lunch with you. I'll be gone an hour at most. The way he was sleeping, I doubt he'll even move," Rachel says.

Quinn sighs and motions for their waiter. "Check please," she says as he approaches. He nods, and places their check on the table. Quinn doesn't even bother to look it over before handing him her debit card.

"What are you doing? Quinn? Are you angry with me?" Rachel says softly. "I'm sorry. He was just—"

"He is really cute," Quinn says, defeated. "I understand. I'm not angry with you. But I'm going back home with you just in case there is any mess. That way… you don't call me as soon as I get back to work to have me come home and help you clean up."

"So you're not mad at me?" Rachel says.

The waiter comes back with their receipt and Quinn quickly scrawls off her signature. She stands, holding out her hand for Rachel to take. "No. Not this time."

Rachel smiles, taking her hand. "In that case, let it be known I would never call you to help you clean up a puppy mess."

"Uh-huh," Quinn says, unimpressed, leading them out of the restaurant and onto the New York streets. Their apartment is only two blocks away.

"Really! Besides, just you wait Quinn Fabray—there will be no mess and you will have worried for nothing. And, missed some of your work for nothing."

"Worrying is what I do. It's gotten me this far. An excellent career, a famous and beautiful wife, and a brand new puppy."

"Famous and beautiful? What about—" Rachel begins.

"—And talented and smart and funny and looking exceptionally sexy in that skirt," Quinn says, interrupting. She leans over and whispers the final part into Rachel's ear, making sure Rachel understands just how much she appreciates the skirt.

Rachel looks up at her, licking her lips. Her hand tightens in Quinn's grip. "You're certainly not going to be missing some of your work for nothing after all. I have a feeling we will be making quite the mess once we get back home. In such a situation, it's only fair if you help clean up…"

Rachel's voice isn't exactly pitched low and the woman walking in front of them looks over her shoulder, throwing a scandalized glance at them.

"…the juices," Rachel says just as loudly. "We can clean up the juices together. I know how excited you get about certain types and how little attention you pay to not making a mess when…serving some."

The woman looks back again, and Quinn hides a smile as Rachel beams at her. Quinn picks up her pace, pulling Rachel along past the woman and into the lobby of their apartment complex. The bellman smiles at them in recognition and Quinn calls the elevator.

Quinn stares at it impatiently, feeling Rachel's eyes on her. Finally, it dings and the doors open. They jump in, and Quinn mashes the buttons. As soon as the doors close, Quinn kisses Rachel hard, backing her up against the wall of the elevator and taking in the feel of their bodies pressed together. Rachel's tongue is in her mouth and her hands press into her chest. Quinn wedges her thigh between Rachel's legs, warmth blossoming and twisting as Rachel moans in response.

The elevator dings again, and Quinn sighs in disappointment as they part. They slide through the open doors, hand in hand.

"Juices? Really? That might have been one of the most ridiculous things you've ever said—counting some of the stuff you said in high school."

"You're the one that just got all fresh in the elevator Quinn, so I don't want to hear it. You can put that pretty mouth to other uses," Rachel says, unlocking the door to their apartment.

"Yes, I think I can think of a few—Oh _fuck_."

The apartment is a wreck. Quinn stands flabbergasted in the doorway, Rachel with her, unmoving. A floor lamp is knocked over, a dark stain covers the rug, the leather couch has been ripped apart, cushions on the ground bleeding stuffing. The remains of Rachel's banana bread decorate the kitchen floor (thank God there was no chocolate in it), and the pantry door is open with dog food bag spilled on its side leaving kibbles everywhere. Toilet paper is _everywhere_, enough of it that Quinn knows that it couldn't have just come from the roll in the bathroom.

And there comes Gershwin, tongue lolling out and tail wagging. He's not exactly little, and he's still growing into his legs. He's really cute, but… _their apartment! _And Quinn hasn't even seen the rest of it yet.

"Quinn?" Rachel says in a small voice.

"Yeah?"

"Are you angry with me now?"

Quinn takes a calming breath. "No, I'm not."

They don't move. Gershwin whines, circling their legs and begging for attention.

"Quinn?" Rachel says.

"Yeah?"

"Will you help me clean?"

"Yeah," Quinn says. "I will."

She moves then, not surprised to see their laundry room door open, cleaning supplies littering the floor and their store of toilet paper completely destroyed.

"So much for that nap," Rachel says, disgruntled. "Next time, I'm not trusting him."

"After this is over," Quinn says as Rachel shuffles by her to grab the some stain remover. "You owe me. We're getting dirty again."

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**A/N: **The name Gershwin of course comes from Gershwin Theatre, currently home to _Wicked _on Broadway.


End file.
